


Honey

by orphan_account



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Attempt at Humor, F/M, Getting Together, Post-Movie(s), Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-25 21:48:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3826234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eggsy finds his spy niche. It's not quite what Harry Hart had in mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Honey

**How it all starts:**

  
  
“What's going on?”  
  
“It's in his back pocket,” Roxy reports, making a face when Eggsy lights up and sticks the cigarette in her mouth just in case the object of her grievances—a South African banker's son who's only of interest to the agency for his contact list—decides to follow her outside on her 'fag break'.  
  
Eggsy quirks an eyebrow. “So?”  
  
“So did you see those _jeans_? That phone is practically up his _arse_ , there is no way I can get anywhere near it without him noticing.”  
  
“ _Psh_. Sure there is.”  
  
“I'm open to all suggestions at this point.”  
  
“It's a warehouse rave, Lancelot, not a fuckin' tea party, so _get ravin'_. Just dance up on him. Give him something other than his bloody mobile to think about.”  
  
“He's sober, he's going to notice if I try anything.”  
  
“Tell you what.” He snatches the ciggie out of her mouth and takes a long drag before putting it out against the wall. “We'll see if he fancies cock, yeah?”  
  
It turns out Jeremy indeed does. Or he just fancies Eggsy. Whatever the case, he's clearly buying what Eggsy is selling, which is a series of moves which wouldn't be out of place in a high budget hip-hop video, followed by a kiss of the sort Harlequin romance novelists must mean when they write nonsense like 'locked in a passionate embrace' and 'plundering mouth'.  
  
“See? Easy peasy,” Eggsy says once they've made their way outside, depositing the mobile into her purse. “Now let's scarper.”  
  
_Huh_ , Roxy thinks.

  
  
**How it escalates:**

  
  
Getting into the good graces of a Jamaican hotel owner's wife at her own fifty-second birthday party is easier said than done. Roxy's sidled up to her three times so far, smiling and chattering her arse off, but honestly, the woman could be her mum and she's obviously not interested in cozying up to the twenty-something daughter of a business partner of her husband's she's never even heard of before.  
  
“This is hopeless,” Roxy mutters into her margarita morosely. “Remind me again why we can't just whack her over the head, tie her to a chair and wave a gun in her face?”  
  
“But _Roxanne_ , my dear,” Eggsy gasps, affecting his best posh accent, “how terribly _brutish_ of you.”  
  
“I'm not a brute, I'm just efficient. This charade is the opposite of that. I can tell you now, she's never, _ever_ going to invite me back to her suite, let alone tell me anything of use.”  
  
“Yeah, I think you're right,” Eggsy admits. “On the plus side, it seems like her husband's skipping this one.”  
  
“What an arse.”  
  
Eggsy grins.  
  
“It's not necessarily a _bad_ thing.”  
  
Roxy narrows her eyes at him.  
  
“No, that's not going to work here.”  
  
“Why wouldn't it?”  
  
“Don't be ridiculous, Galahad, she's not going to pick up a boy toy in front of most of her friends and family.”  
  
“You wound me,” Eggsy tells her, all big-eyed mock-offence. “Come _on_ , it's worth a try, innit?”  
  
It _really_ shouldn't work, is the thing. Roxy winces as she watches Eggsy stumble into the woman, splashing a good deal of his drink all down the front of her gauzy beach cover up. He says something she can't quite make out from her vantage point by the bar, but it has the birthday lady and her friends tittering.  
  
It's like something straight out of a terrible romantic comedy film: Eggsy scratches at the top of his head apologetically, all doe-eyed innocence and contrition as he musses his hair up _just so_ , giving his rapidly growing crowd of admirers a nice look at those tight gymnast's muscles in action. The target, obviously charmed in a heartbeat, reaches out and curls a well-manicured hand halfway around subtly flexed biceps.  
  
Roxy needs another margarita. Or five.  
  
It should be fine, though; it seems like she is officially off the clock.

  
  
**Why wizards should never be trusted:**

  
  
Eggsy looks at the tiny, practically microscopic pair of swim shorts on the table, then back up at Merlin.  
  
“You need me to _what_?”  
  
“We need you to put these on, swim around in the pool until this gentleman,” Merlin jabs a finger at the screen; by Roxy's estimation, the Sicilian tycoon in the photo must be somewhere between eighty and the grave, “shows, at which point you shall walk out of the waves like Ursula Andress at her most iconic. The rest will work itself out, I'm sure.”  
  
“There are no waves in a swimming pool,” Eggsy points out dubiously.  
  
Merlin shrugs.  
  
“ _Make_ some.”  
  
“To be clear,” he tells Roxy once Eggsy and his inappropriate swim wear are out of earshot, “I'm fucking with him.”  
  
Roxy nods.  
  
“So I gather.”

  
  
**A shocking realization of self-discovery:**

  
  
Roxy hurls herself through the door, rolls to one knee and tranqs the target in the neck. She's on her feet before the man hits the floor.  
  
“You know, I've been wondering,” Eggsy says contemplatively. “Do all these kinky evil mastermind types have the same secret sex lair decorator or what? I mean, that is the _exact same_ ugly-arse wall carpet that arms dealer bloke had just last month. _Weird_ , innit?”  
  
Roxy glances at the aforementioned wall carpet and then back at the bed, where Eggsy is tied to all four bed posts, wearing a pair of baby pink lace knickers and nothing else. There's a perfect, ripe strawberry precariously balanced in his navel with a dollop of whipped cream on top.  
  
She briefly contemplates just climbing up the bed between his legs and gobbling it up—she _loves_ strawberries—before coming to her senses.  
  
“I suppose it's true what they say; money can't buy taste,” she tells him, and if she sounds a bit out of breath, it's only because she just put down five bodyguards, all of whom were over twice her size and not the least bit cooperative.  
  
Eggsy nods, and then he actually seems to think about what she just said.  
  
“Oh fuck _off_ , I'm the fuckin' _epitome_ of tasteful.”

  
  
**A huge, giant problem of massive proportions:**

  
  
Roxy is, first and foremost, a Kingsman. She's a professional. She's _killed people_. She's not some cock-addled sixteen-year-old with an out-of-control sex drive who falls arse over tit the moment she gets up close and personal with a somewhat fit bloke.  
  
Consequently, it's not the least bit surprising that she finds it difficult to accept how there is an evergrowing part of her that just really, _really_ wants to sit on Eggsy Unwin's pretty face, and not only to make him shut up about his sister's upcoming fifth birthday party.  
  
“She really wants a bunny but I'm not gonna be one of those twats who buy an animal for a sprog who would probably get bored of the poor thing in two days, yeah?” Eggsy is saying. He's also toying with the strings of her bikini top in the back with one hand; the other is curled around her hip.

They're dancing at a beach party in Ibiza—just another day at the office, really—and Roxy fervently hopes she gets to kick someone in the head later on.  
  
“Building blocks stimulate children's critical and creative thinking and promote mental growth,” she tells him dully.  
  
Eggsy frowns at her.  
  
“Just get her some Legos,” she clarifies.  
  
Eggsy frowns at her some more.  
  
“Thought those things were a choking hazard?”  
  
“ _You're_ a choking hazard,” she mutters into his neck, which smells of clean sweat and minty aftershave and sugar after the vodka body shot some girl took off of him earlier.  
  
“What does that even _mean_?”  
  
Forget the head-kicking—she really hopes she gets to _shoot_ someone in the next couple of hours.

  
  
**Where things come to a head:**

  
  
“What is it with these rich ladies?” Eggsy demands as he tumbles into the car. He's wearing a tux and looking like a million messed up quid; hair and collar in complete disarray. “You'd think they could afford to get buggered whenever they felt like it, but they always go at it like they ain't seen a cock since I was born.”  
  
Roxy has been sweating in a polyester housekeeping uniform for the past eight hours, which is to say; she's in no mood whatsoever to listen to a graphic retelling of his latest glamorous sexcapade.  
  
“When I said _keep her busy_ , Galahad, I meant make sure she wouldn't be returning to her room for the grand total of _twenty minutes_ I needed to get what we came here for,” she hears herself say. “But I'm glad you have once again managed to get shagged on the job while I was busy doing things of actual import. _Bravo_. Truly well done.”  
  
She's fully aware of how _ridiculous_ she's being, how disrespectful and just plain unfair to him, but she can't seem to help herself. This is the effect he has on her.  
  
“Huh,” Eggsy says. When she chances a glance at his face, he seems more thoughtful than offended. “So it's like that.”  
  
“What's like what?”  
  
“You're a bit of an emotionally stunted nutter, ain't you? Musta been all that _education_.”  
  
“I'm no such thing,” she sputters, just about melting into her seat under the fond, vaguely amused look he's giving her.  
  
“Roxy, if you wanted me to be the sweet, sweet Honey Ryder to your Bond, all you needed to do was _ask_. I've only been dangling my bollocks in front of your face since the day we met.”  
  
“Oh,” Roxy says. “Is that what you've been doing?”  
  
“You're so daft,” he murmurs affectionately.  
  
“If I'm daft then you're a _tart_.”  
  
“I'd say that sounds just about right. Now c'mere and gimme a kiss already, would ya?”  
  
And _that_ , that sounds just about right, too.

  
  
**Where things come to a _head_ :**

  
  
“Oh no, _absolutely_ not,” Merlin says, slapping a hand over his eyes. “Does this look like a dormitory room to you arseholes? You're cleaning that desk with bleach. You're cleaning this whole _building_ with bleach and itty-bitty toddler toothbrushes, am I clear?”  
  
“Aye aye, sir,” they chorus dutifully.  
  
“Fucking finally, I might add,” Merlin mutters. “Strictly off the record, of course. Now get to scrubbing.”  
  
He actually sticks around to enforce—and record—their punishment, the completion of which takes them six hours and two entire bottles of Domestos.

They both agree it was completely worth it.


End file.
